


Learning to Lose

by BadDecisionsAndGoodWriting



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Death, Drug Use, Drugs, F/M, FIB - Freeform, Gross, Love/Hate, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Tsundere, Tsundere Reader, Tsunderes, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadDecisionsAndGoodWriting/pseuds/BadDecisionsAndGoodWriting
Summary: Have you ever wanted to mix GTA V and anime?Regardless of your answer, here it is!You're just a lawful member of the FIB, trying to make it in Los Santos, he's a criminal trying to tear up the city as much as possible. Because fate hates you, you end up meeting one another. And boy, do you get along poorly. With his perverse and offensive nature and your tendency towards flusteredness, you make an interesting duo. N-not that you imagine yourself with him or anything, you hate everything about this!B-bastard.
Relationships: Trevor Philips/Reader, Trevor Philips/You
Comments: 16
Kudos: 30





	Learning to Lose

**Author's Note:**

> I call myself Bad Decisions for a reason, baby!!!
> 
> I'm gonna level with you, I have no clue what I'm doing with this. I don't really have a story yet, although I have a minor one, there's not much to it yet. For the most part, this is going to be a like... well it'll be chronological, like the characters will grow and change and things will happen, but it'll probably be mostly like fun scenarios. Scenarios that form something like a story, but still. Or maybe it'll get more structured as it goes on! I have no idea! I don't even have a slight estimate about the number of chapters. All I do know is that I haven't seen some specific qualities in a lot of Trevor/Reader fics that I crave, so that's what this'll be about. 
> 
> p.s. I'm probably gonna end up editing the description, I'm not super happy with it, but it's past my bedtime so you know, gotta describe it somehow.
> 
> For updates on stories, sneak peaks, and occasionally fanart please check me out at [TheHeraldOfTheDark](https://theheraldofthedark.tumblr.com/).
> 
> As always, feedback and critique is especially important to me, so if you have any please let me know so I can continue to improve.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy the story.

“Why're you running, why are you running?” A callous, mocking voice laughed as it chased you down the street.

Frankly, not that you would tell him, you couldn’t even remember now. There were people, you approached, they said something, you said something back, and then you were running like hell away from them. Your lungs hurt already, sucking in the coarse desert air, the feeling chipping away at your stamina. You could vaguely recall wanting to see the desert, or the sea, or both, your mind can’t exactly grasp the minute details right now. You did not have “stage a terrified getaway from a bunch of violent, disrespectful hillbillies” as an item on your vacation plans, that was for sure. The amount of terror in your system was drowning it out now, but boy oh boy were they saying things to you that you would usually slap someone for. Maybe that was how you got into this. The truth wasn’t useful, now.

“Come back, we just want to talk!” Another voice called, from around the same place as the gunshot that just whizzed past your shoulder. 

These guys didn’t seem to know what they wanted. You mean really, were they gonna kill you? Beat you? Shoot you? Make fun of you? Make up your damn minds, weren’t you right? It wouldn’t be a falsehood to say that you weren’t a track star in college; they’re gaining on you pretty fast. Why they didn’t use one of their shitty cars you honestly don’t know. You guessed you’ll have to ask when they were done burying your dead body somewhere out in the wilderness. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that they were just messing with you. Try telling that to your animal brain though, while it was pumping out more fear chemicals than you frankly knew how to deal with. 

Tears flowed down your face as another gunshot just barely missed you, embedding itself into one of the buildings you were attempting to run around. As their footsteps got louder, you knew that soon they would be upon you. The will you had at the beginning of the chase was nearly out now, leaving you with a dwindling flight response and a body that wasn’t primed to do this sort of exercise. You jolted to the side as a stray bullet embedded itself into the ground right at your heels. Maybe you’d do one last jig, give your attackers a laugh before they bashed your skull in. Like a swan dive into asphalt. A sound your brain had since locked you out of burst from your lips as a bullet sliced through your leg. Needles, bees, teeth, and barbed wire gnawed at your leg as the registering pain threw you to the ground.

Your heart hit the ground faster than you as a disconnected voice in your head observed that it was the end. Your body failed to listen to the voice’s judgemental, frustrated tones as it commanded you to get up, run away, crawl away, something. The unimaginable pain hitting you in waves prevented that, though, leaving you to sob pitifully on the ground. One of them yelled at another, something about watching where he shoots or perhaps a congratulations. They didn’t seem keen on clarifying as they stalked up to your bleeding form, an angry hush having fallen over them. You could’ve cut the tension with a butter knife, if you weren’t crying for them to spare you. 

Time slowed down as one of them reached for you, his expression hidden behind the corner of your eye and the relentless tears. Just as the man’s hand brushed your shirt, it was pulled away. The air sharpened, the men began to shout, and you screamed in terror as gunshots pierced the silence. All you could think to do was to curl up into the fetal position and to cover your head. This put pressure on your wound, however, so you settled for covering your head. A shot landed in something close to you, and a second later a body dropped onto you like a falling bookcase. The next moments were a flurry of bawling your eyes out, trying to brace yourself for stabs or feverish hands or whatever else, and trying to get the heavy body off you. The once judgemental voice in your head now joined you in shrieking, completely unable to parse almost any sense out of the situation.

“YOU FUCKERS!” a rough, brutish voice roared, “FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!”

It sounded like droves of people are running around, shooting, yelling, dying: get your wartime PTSD without going through all the leg work! Lucky you. You couldn’t open your eyes, you just couldn’t, but so many people were falling down all around you. You realized that the person that fell on top of you was dead too, which you added a few extra sobs for. Not just for the person, but for the darkness of it all. The same voice shouted something again, raw and angry, but you simply could not wrap your mind around what it was saying. It sounded insulting, though. 

As you continued to wiggle underneath the hillbilly’s body, the chaos settled down into a more typical level of noise. A good deal of your fight left with it, leaving you to hiccup out your sorrow. You managed to open your eyes, only to be met by a veritable redneck graveyard. Blood, stained clothes, and empty faces stared back at you as your breathing picked up again. The heat fried the dead, making your eyes water from the putrid stench alone. In misery, you weakly managed work the body off you as you crawled forward. Even using your damaged leg felt like torture, as little as you were using it.

“Are you still alive?” the rough voice asked, seemingly lacking any sort of compassion, “or are you just twitching?”

“I’m barely alive,” you tried to say, but the somewhat sarcastic and snappy response got butchered by the agony. The actual sounds you produced came closer to a blubbering child who had their knee scraped at the park. Only it was a bullet hole and you had been traumatized for life. 

As the man’s steps got closer, you begged him to not kill you. Your head felt disconnected from everything around you, whispering vaguely logical ideas to the rest of you, all the parts that couldn’t hear it. Between the blood loss and the stench of death, the world was going hazy and fuzzy. You were still crawling out from under the bastard, his tacky leather jacket feeling like sandpaper against your flesh. Bringing your head up was too much to ask, even as the violent man stood above you and demanded you to look at him. You meekly shook your head without a clue as to why you were doing it.

Vomit rose in a snap to your throat as your savior hoisted you to your feet. The vertical position didn’t last long as your bleeding leg spasmed violently from the pressure. You were left bowing on your good knee, one of the strangers hands hooked loosely around your chest, and your arm gripped into his hips in a desperate attempt to stay up. He growled, and tried one more time to get you on your feet, only to be rewarded with your body crumpling up against him. Not in the mood for this shit, he picked your filth stained body up into his filth stained arms. To your credit, you did wrap shaky arms around his neck, partially helping to support yourself.

Silly emotions like gratitude and relief bubbled up in you, forcing even more tears out of your spent eyes. This made it harder to make out the face of your savior than it should, but you were starting to see him a little clearer. He was indeed a man, as his rough voice and muscular trunk would lead you to believe. A rather ugly man, if you were making his face out correctly. He was a dark brunette, although you would hesitate to call him a brunette as it implied some level of prettiness, and the only kind of pretty he was was pretty rough. His face was weathered from age and wear, sporting so many scars you couldn’t keep track of them if you had tried. His eyes were dark, burning with a fury that was pointed right at you.

“Who are you?” you weakly asked, not even hiding your fear.

“Who wants to know?” he shot back, seemingly unaware of your current state.

It took longer than you’d like to dwell on to answer him, which was something you probably wouldn’t even had done if you still had your mind, “I’m… I’m (y/n).” You hiccuped as the dam cracked once more, “I live in Los Santos, I was on vacation, my leg hurts, I want to go home, I—”

“I didn’t ask for your life story, porkchop,” he interrupted, the lack of concern in his voice serving to heighten your anxiety.

His comment scalded you just enough to return a bit of your mind back to you, “Where are you taking me?” You didn’t wait for his answer, “Are you taking me to the hospital? Can you take me to the hospital?” You wiggled your leg, “I think I’ve been shot.”

He laughed, a strong sound, “You have cer-tain-ly been shot.” He took a casual look over at your wound, “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, you barely got scraped. And no, we’re not going to the hospital for your little boo-boo,” he mocked, stunning you into silence. “I could patch up that little, heh, ouchie much fucking better than those robbers at the medical center. I’ll charge you less too.” There was probably something you should have said to that, but for the life of you you couldn’t come up with a single thing. “You got a car?”

“I… I think so?”

“You think so.” He said, unimpressed, “you might have a car?”

“Yeah?”

“Eh, hypothetically,” he started, and you suddenly noticed his northern accent, “if you did have a car, where would you have maybe parked it?” He was probably making fun of you, if you had to guess.

“Uhm… I’m staying at this shitty hotel… motel? But I…” you looked around uselessly, “I don’t know where I am right now. They chased me for a while, I think.” You weren’t exactly a doctor, but you wouldn’t be surprised if you were going into shock. Your thoughts waded through syrup, going so slowly that you could barely notice just how groggy you really were. Was that shock? You weren’t doing well, was what you were saying.

He stared at you for a long while, split between frustration and amusement, “We’ll just take my car,” he decided.

You could only nod dumbly at him, your mental faculties more concerned about the mounting pain than sassing. And you cared a lot about sassing. You hugged him closely around the neck, you’d like to believe it was only to distract yourself from the pain, but that probably wasn’t the truth. There was a necessary silence as he stomped along the desert; he was really, like, _ trying _to stomp—you were bouncing uncomfortably. You were also jiggling a bit, and you’d like to believe that he wasn’t moving like he was just to see it. Because you’d like to believe the best of people. However, this was most likely the guy that had just gone on a bullet filled rampage. So, you know, it was possible.

Eventually the crunch of sand made way for the flatter sounds of concrete, and you found yourself in a little shopping parking lot. It was hard to recall what with the hideous pain and the whole adrenaline thing coursing through you, but you thought you passed this place during the chase. The gruff man took you over to a very beat up, very dirty red Bodhi, concerningly without a roof. What did he do when it rains? You mentally assured yourself that he must have had like a tarp or maybe even a hidden convertible roof in those scenarios, despite the fact that this guy probably didn’t give a shit. After bumbling around the side of the truck, he unceremoniously tossed you in. Without opening the door, you may add, which felt barbaric and also your bad leg got caught. 

You sniffled pathetically to yourself as you managed to shuffle your broken body properly into the seat. The man, seemingly on edge the whole time, yanked the car door open and proceeded to slam it shut so loud that if there were windows to the doors he surely would have shattered the glass. With shaking arms, you buckled yourself into the rackety old truck. The ornery fellow sitting next to you didn’t even bother with the seatbelts, revving the engine like it owed him money. Without grace, he pulled out of his spot and wobbled onto the desert road. Grating rock flowed through the radio, although if you had been in a better mood you’d probably have enjoyed it.

“You never did tell me your name,” you mumbled. 

“Oh, shit, right.” He turned towards you, a hint of embarrassment in his tone that quickly switched to pride (who the hell was proud of their own name?), “The name’s Trevor Philips.”

“Hello, Mr. Philips,” ok, so it was a little weird you just called him that, but he was clearly older than you, and you were pretty woozy. “Did you save me?” ...I don’t know genius, did he? Fucking Hell, if you hadn’t been in the state you were in, you’d be slapping yourself right now. Or opening the door to toss yourself out. You weren’t even sure why you were so embarrassed, but by God in heaven you were.

He laughed, answering you in a mockingly comforting tone, “‘Mr. Philips’ shot all those mean old rednecks just for you, princess. No need to thank me, you can suck my dick later.”

The pause was too long for your tastes, “Uh… thanks…?”

“Hey!” He chided harshly, “I just fucking said to not thank me! Did they shoot out your brains too or some shit?”

“I’m not going to suck—why would you even say that?” you sputtered, flustered, embarrassed, and quite frankly offended.

He grumbled, both playful and genuinely pissed off, “Whatever happened to gratitude.” At your lack of response, he clarified, “Chivalry is truly dead.” 

The two of you fell into another silence, this time a deeply uncomfortable silence. You had never met someone who could swing between playful and pissy that quickly, although to be fair it seemed that he was always pissy, and was just good at changing tone. You weren’t sure how he had done it, but he was somehow placing equal emphasis on every word, and each word had a lot of emphasis. It was completely unclear if he’s pissed at you, or just constantly pissed off. You weren’t confident enough to decide on that, so you just nervously kept your mouth shut. He wasn’t too keen on that however.

“Is that blood on your face, or do you have the hots for old Uncle T?”

Because some deity hated you, your face flushed even more at the mere suggestion. Or maybe it was the idea of him being your uncle combined with the sexual undertones. You didn’t, by the way, have the hots for this creepshow (you thought). But you did have some of your own fucking diginity. You just… you blushed easily! What could you say? It was genetic, you were pretty sure. Either way, the only reason this prick was making you blush was because he was embarrassing you half to death. Probably. Goddammit, you were getting flustered again.

“No! What gave you that idea?!” you responded shrilly. “Wait, do I have blood on my face?” You quickly checked yourself in the car’s mirror. Oh, oh good God, you did. You nearly retched as you desperately scrubbed at your face with your shirt. This did little besides smear more blood on yourself. You were like… dripping with the stuff. Absolutely dripping. You were also making a scene with your sporadic twitchy movements and mounting noises of terror.

“What?” Trevor asked, glaring at you through the rearview mirror, “what the fuck is the problem this time.”

“There’s so much—oh God I think some went in my mouth—so much blood on me,” panic was at the forefront of your shaking, shivering voice.

“Well don’t fucking drink it,” he slapped the back of your head, unhelpfully sending another drop of blood down your throat.

Tears once again pricked at the corners of your eyes as panic overwhelmed your brain. There was no telling how much of the blood you were coated in was yours and how much was residue from a dying farm-creep. Were you feeling colder? Were you running out of blood? Were you dying?! Why in the name of God did you just let this random guy drive you anywhere he chooses! Correction, why did you let a man who just slaughtered an untold number of people drive you wherever he pleases?! Had you lost it?! He could be driving you to your death for all you know! He could be driving you to… you didn’t know, some kind of mountain cannibals! He could be—

“We’re here,” Trevor pushed the door open without care, meandering over to your side. He looked into your terrified eyes with not a drop of concern, “You ok to walk?”

“No? I’m shot? In the leg?” your voice pitched higher and higher as if your questions have questions. Which they did, you were filled with questions. You weren’t even entirely sure where you were right now, and that was not an exaggeration.

His eye twitched in a way that suggested it was aimed at you, “I was just asking, God, you’re so needy.”

You were almost certain there was a hint of a sexual joke there, but at this point you weren’t in the mood to debate it with him. He actually opened the car door this time, hallelujah, and he gingerly picked you up. He didn’t flinch at the sheer volume of blood on you, although he did cringe when he gripped your slippery leg. Or maybe it was at the smear you left on his car’s seat. Though frankly you would be quite shocked to find out that his car hadn’t suffered a bit of gore in the past.

Like a dead bride about to have several very illegal things done to them, you were carried into a rusty trailer that smelled of a lab experiment gone horribly wrong. There was a pretty good chance you were going to throw up, but you really, really didn’t want to use this guy’s bathroom in any capacity. There was a warn out tarp that acted as the roof of a makeshift porch. Despite how it looked and the… quality of the company you were keeping, you were strangely impressed by the fact that he managed to even put that together—you never really pictured a trailer with any sort of homelike qualities. Like the fence that you were sure people had fearfully jumped over many, many times. Hopefully you wouldn’t have a need to, cause you sure wouldn’t go anywhere!

In spite of the desert heat you were shivering from the terror or the pain, or both. Trevor tried to lift you up with his upper arm as he struggled to open the door. Absentmindedly, you reached out to open the door for him. It opened right away, leaving a bloodstain that really enhanced the unwelcoming energy of his trailer. You didn’t realize it at the time, but he probably never locked his trailer, he seemed to have enough of a defense mechanism just by existing there. For a second, you thought you were in a cartoon and something smells really bad, but then you realize that the effect was just the sizable neon sign and also the house just smelled bad. Even worse, now that the door’s open. Like rotten eggs—maybe sulfur?

“Tr-Trevor!” an old, jittery voice called out, “What are you doing?! You can’t just—” The fear in his eyes was poignant as you weakly moved your head to meet them.

“I think I can do whatever the hell I want, _ Ron _ ,” Trevor hissed as he stepped into his very, _ very _humble abode.

This Ron fellow was a bit older than Trevor, it seemed, unless Trevor made a habit out of dying his hair and let's face it—unlikely. You’d make a spirited guess that he was partially responsible for the unusual odor the place had, as he was smoking something out of a pipe. You didn’t have an idea what he was doing then, but now you were fairly sure it was crack or some other similar illicit drug. He looked like crackhead too, one that enjoyed golfing and some kind of mild adventuring. He looked pretty damn frail, at least when compared to your “savior”, anyways. You immediately trusted him more than Philips. 

“I mean—of course you can,” Ron stood up, eyeing you with big, scared eyes, “b-but you shouldn’t bring a body here—or a soon-to-be one, that’s so easy to trace.”

“Ron!” Trevor shouted, turning away from him to dump you into a nearby (read: the only) little bedroom, “do you think I’m some kind of fucking animal?!” He didn’t seem even a little concerned at how much blood you were getting on his bed, nor what was on his bed when he all but threw you onto it. He was fuming so hard you felt notably warmer, “You stay right here, I’ve got to do a little supervising.” Predictably, he didn’t wait for you to ask just what in the hell he was referring to, opting to slam the sliding bedroom door shut as hard as he could.

The walls couldn’t hope to mask the volume of the men in the other room, but they worked together with your busied mind to mask most of their words. Except for Trevor’s “FUCK YOU” and similar expletives. You barely had time to address that whole mess, however, as something was urgently poking you in the back. You had just enough energy to dig whatever it was out from under you, only to see a similar kind of glass thingy that Ron was smoking out of. Great, they were both druggies. You set the little object on the bedside table, in the process getting a good look at what kind of person this Mr. Philips was.

The bedroom’s wallpaper didn’t look like it had been changed since he got the place—he just didn’t seem like much of a nature guy, or calm in the slightest. There were a few scarce images of pinup girls along the walls, seemingly stolen out of various porny magazines. His closet door was off its hinges, revealing that yes, he dressed like that all the time. The shitty TV was broken by a fist like object, and various beer bottles were strewn about the room. Did you mention that there were just way too many cigarettes in the bed? Like, way too fuckin many, it was disgusting. You hurriedly sat up and swiped as many of them off the cheap grey bed as possible. Oh good God there was still so much blood on you.

Assumedly Trevor screamed one last thing at Ron before there was a shuffle and the front door slammed shut. Meaning you were alone with Trevor. You weren’t even going to bother to ask how this could get any worse. There were steps heading towards the bedroom, but they tapered off to the left. He stopped before stomping into your room. You meant his room. This was all very confusing. 

“Alright!” Trevor beamed at you, masking his fury poorly with a sarcastically strong sense of positivity, “the doctor will see you now.”

“Hooray,” you weakly cheered, just hoping he’ll make you not die soon.

He breathed out of his nose in that way people did when they were mildly amused by something and plopped on the end of the bed. One leg folded on the bed, the other awkwardly on the floor. You tried your absolute hardest not to stare at his crotch as he shuffled around the supplies in his medical pouch. You had no clue why you had to even put effort into averting your stare, but it almost felt like… it was _ staring _ at you. He pulled out some number of things as he turned his attention on you. He grinned at you tightly before he swung the wet towel over his shoulder and onto your leg. You jumped, there was really no hiding it.

Your leg twitched pretty hard as he roughly ran the towel over the bullet holes, probably not realizing how sensitized your skin had become. Or maybe he was just too used to the feeling to realize you might not be. Grime and blood came off your skin, although you were still covered in just so many fluids. He lifted your leg and turned it gently to see what he was working with. You tried to not be offended when he laughed.

“This,” he pointed at a section of your leg you could barely see, “is the problem? I’ve walked off worse.”

“Then can you fix it?” you could be offended later.

He looked at you for a second, like you hurt his feelings, “Can I fix it…? Of fucking COURSE I can fix it, do I look like I don’t know how to deal with bullets?”

“I’m not worried on that front, sir,” you responded in a mumble.

He merely grunted at you and began his work. You were feeling a bit too squeamish to really look at what he’s doing, so you focused on him instead. He had a 5-o’clock shadow littered with tiny scars, the faint beard hugging a slightly sagging face. There were lines around his downward sloping nose that imply he was either old or a big smiler, or both, while smaller lines curving down from his mouth suggested a frowner, as well as being old. He was probably pretty old, that was what you choose to take away from that. Also, he was probably pretty emotional. 

Letting your eyes drift upwards, you found even more wrinkles along his weathered skin. There was a collection of frown lines in between his eyebrows, which were in full use as he was grumbling to himself moodily. His forehead was filled with worry wrinkles, and a few various bruises and blemishes. From what little you could see of his body, it seemed as if he was prone to injury, as you couldn’t go one inch on his face without bumping into a healing scar. You were coping with it by chalking it up to a hallucination, but you were pretty sure there was a “Cut Here” tattoo on his neck complete with the little dashed lines you would see on children’s crafts. He barely had any hair on his head, only a few patchy, weak looking spots.

He was repulsive. He was sickening. He was—oh, he was done.

“All bandaged up, now it’s just gotta heal on its own,” he slapped your leg, like it didn’t hurt. The bastard.

“Just like that?” you sat up, worry lacing your words, “aren’t you supposed to do like… more or something?”

“Like what?” he was now gripping your leg, just a bit too tightly.

“Well—I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. I just… in the hospital they have to do more than that, right?” You tried not to let out a noise of fear as he started to run his hand farther up your leg. “L-like, isn’t there muscles that were damaged? And what if it got my bones or something?” His face was taking on a quality you weren’t quite sure if you like. Correction, you definitely did not like him staring at you like a piece of meat, 100% not. “And—and I’m still totally covered in blood, what if I get infected somewhere else?” His fingers were feeling around your thigh, leaning towards a place you absolutely did not want him to go. “And I can’t just walk around like this! I’m disgusting! You have to do something!”

He stopped, thank god, but his stare could have melted you into a terrified goo, “I already patched up your little scrap, what else do you fucking want me to do?” You were pretty sure he’d like to call you an ungrateful bitch/bastard, but he was holding himself back for some unidentifiable reason.

“I just—I need to wash this crap off, and uh… I probably need new clothes. I don’t wanna get infected with some blood disease.”

“I do all this for you, and you thank me by making fucking demands?” He asked in a non-questioning manner.

“I’m sorry, but I just feel disgusting. I can pay you, or something.” You felt more disgusting for offering.

He scowled at you, “The shower’s that way,” he jabbed his thumb to the left of the door.

“W-I don’t think I can really stand in a shower,” you said, not realizing what you were suggesting, “can you help me?” Oh no. Oh no good god. Oh no good God what did you just say. Oh my God, he was looking at you with such a looooooook. “Wait, I didn’t mean it that way—”

“Oh ho ho ho hooooo,” he stopped to laugh, “we-eh-ell, I think I can accept that kind of payment.” 

Your face went redder than red, “What—What kind of person do you think I am?! I’m not some sort of whore, I’m not gonna repay you in—ugh! Why would you even suggest that?! That’s—you creep!” 

With more effort than it usually took, you got up off the bed. You stumbled out, limping and grimacing with every step. You really only made it a few steps before Trevor grunted (almost growled) at you and dragged you back. You landed with a very slight shriek back onto the bed, bouncing off the hard mattress. He effectively dragged you into his lap, looking absolutely furious. You shrunk away, mental images of what he might do flickering around your head like a life poorly spent.

“You are by far, the bitchiest person I’ve ever met.” Your heart dropped to your stomach as he slipped his hands under your shirt.

“I’m sorry—please, please reconsider,” mortal terror flooded your system, although you can’t move for the life of you.

“What?” he still seemed frustrated and began to pull it off of you.

“Stop! Please, I’m sorry, don’t!” you crossed your arms across your chest to at least try to stop him, “I just got flustered! Don’t touch me, please!” Sobbing broke out in your voice, “I didn’t mean anything by it! Just let me go home, please!”

“What!” He stopped immediately, hands gripping the fabric so tight it should have been ripping. He looked like he’s about to pop a vein somewhere, “I’m not even—!”

His hands left you as he steps off of the bed, running his hands through his patchy hair. You kept crying, despite yourself. You curled up into a little ball, bawling nearly as loud as before. Today was just not your day, huh? Trevor growled at your shaking form and punched the wall as if that would somehow fix all of this. It didn’t, and you kept crying. Trevor swore and stomped out of his trailer. In a perfect world, you would have gotten up and ran away, the state of you be damned. But this wasn’t a perfect world and you were currently letting out all of your emotions onto the bed. Your lungs tightened as he stepped back into the trailer, and you tried your best to hide yourself. It didn’t work, and he re-entered the room anyways. 

“Get up, I got you a stool,” he gruffly called out to you, a hint of an attempt to soothe.

You flipped around on the bed with a bit of difficulty, ever clumsy, it seemed, “a… a stool?”

“For the damn shower,” the stool clattered onto the plastic tile, “Since you’re too much of a pussy to try standing.”

“I don’t—weren’t you about to—”

He put his hand on his chest like a little Victorian lady, “I’m appalled,” he said, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. 

“But… why were you trying to take off my clothes?”

He threw his hands up with abandon, “I was just tryin to help. But apparently that makes me a creep, doesn’t it?”

_ Yeah, it super does _. “I guess… No I mean—I’m sorry, Mr. Philips.”

He waved you off dismissively, “Just go wash yourself off, I need a drink.” 

There was a long moment of silence and contemplation as he moved out of your point of view. What even just happened. You were trying to process it, but what the fffffuck just went down. He was—it really felt like he—no, no you were just… but it really really did! He… you… All you could do was pick yourself up off the bed and limp into the bathroom, making sure not to meet Trevor’s eyes as you did. You shut the door as tight as it would go, and made extra sure to lock it. Ratty old thing didn’t look like it was really going to hold, but you’d take what you could get.

You turned around and realized that the bathroom was pretty much worse than any other part of his trailer. It was… so filthy. So filthy. Just… why? He must have been trying to do this somehow. You were sure of it. There was no way he’d otherwise let it get this bad. You tried not to gag as you dragged the little metal stool into the shower with you. It was barely big enough for the both of you, but you weren’t going to gripe about that right now, you could just whine to your friends later. 

As a defense mechanism, you forced your mind to drift away from where you were now. Instead you pretended you were at home, and everything didn’t hurt, and you felt just fine. The water was cold at first, as showers often were. It didn’t heat up as quick as your shower did, which fitted with how chilling this whole day had been. It started off alright, you guessed, but it had gone so badly you could barely remember what you did an hour before. It was hard to say, perhaps impossible, whether or not your skin felt disgusting from the blood or from the disgusting showerhead. At least you wouldn’t _ look _so disgusting after this.

As quick as you got in, you jumped (metaphorically) out of the shower. It was almost a shame, the water had only now started to get hot. If you had actually cared, that was. You didn’t. The towel ring squeaked from the strain of it’s towel being ripped away. Like you were gonna give your host the benefit of the doubt, get real. You reached for the handle, already thinking about the soft bed-time robe you were going to lounge around the house with for the rest of the day when it hit you. Your clothes were surely a complete and utter health risk, and the only clothing in the “house” was owned by…

You peaked out at him, agitation firing through every synapse in your brain. He sat on a rickety old chair, sipping beer and watching a cartoon. He was leaned forward, half towards the television and half towards the door, his arms lazily supporting his upper body from his legs. Somehow, he looked even more pissed than he had looked before he left you to your own business. You had a sneaking suspicion that he may have some slight anger issues. You were contemplating whether or not it was worth it to wear the absolute mess that was your previous outfit when he turned his attention to you.

Trevor scrunched his brow together, rubbing his forehead so hard that he might as well have been trying to aggravate his headache. One that you were causing, by the way. In case you didn’t notice. He fucking hated that look on you right now. Maybe another time, he’d be morbidly happy at the unheeded terror resting in you, but this was now. It was fucking annoying, really, really fucking annoying. He wasn’t even doing anything to you, and here you were acting like he had a gun to your head. Which, could he just say, was becoming an increasingly tempting course of action. But, he wasn’t some kind of fucking savage… God dammit you were frustrating.

He fixed you with an insincere grin, “Hey! I’m impressed, thought you would faint at the water.”

“That's,” you gulp, “how dare you.” 

“What did you just say?” Trevor said, beginning to stand, a dangerous tone already on his lips. 

“No-nothing!” you sank back into the uncomfortable refuge of the bathroom.

“Oh no, you definitely said something,” he slapped his beer bottle onto the counter, coming very, very close to breaking it then and there.

“No! No no, I didn’t—I was just—”

“No, no!” he mocked, putting his hands to his face as if to hide it, “will you fucking stop with the excuses? It’s getting _ old _.”

“I’m sorry,” you squeaked, your eyes just barely peeking out from the doorframe.

He was standing in front of you now, eyes narrowed, “The hell is wrong with you?” Trevor leaned down to look you in the eye.

“You… I… You tried to touch me!” you tried to put on a fierce tone of voice, but you ended up sounding a little more like a particularly defensive mouse, “I made you mad and you were going to… I don’t even know what!”

”I was just trying to be a fucking help,” Trevor informed you, moving his arms this way and that, pissed off at merely having to explain himself (not to mention the dozens of other reasons), “I was just doing my civic duty of helping the defenseless! After all, if you couldn’t even stand, how was I supposed to know you could take your clothes off yourself?” Your face only scrunched in mild disgust, and he only scowled at you instead of shooting your head off, “Yeah ok, look, I. Am. Sorry. Ok? Now can you stop looking at me like that? It’s fucking annoying.”

You did avert your eyes, somewhere in between relieved, embarrassed, and even angrier than you were before, “I’m not going to thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” he snarled, “now get out, Trevor’s Inn is closing.”

Oh dear, here it comes, “Uhm… actually, Mr. Philips,” your face was red again. Fuck your life, “I uhm… my clothes are kinda…”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Trevor groaned, pinching his temples.

“I mean, I can just wear them, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Shut your trap,” he waved you off harshly. You barely had time to want to die before he throws some dirty clothes at you, “Just put this shit on so we can leave.”

You could ask what he meant by “we”, but you could figure it out. You slid the door shut as quick as you could, perhaps just to avoid Trevor’s bad mood. Which just so happens to shield him from your bad mood. You were both abysmal. You were practically made for each other. Mentally, you shrieked at yourself. You did that a lot. Before you could say “you have some serious problems” you had gotten yourself dressed in some of Trevor’s clothes. 

There was a t-shirt with some radio station you weren’t entirely familiar with (and with your current knowledge base of Trevor, you didn’t plan to). The work pants he provided you with weren’t nearly up to your standards, but they were big enough that you felt mildly comfortable. Thankfully, he hadn’t tried to provide you with any underwear—yours might have been a little dirty, but you’d have to guess that his would be a fucking biohazard.

Solemnly, you peeled the door open and— ”JESUS CHRIST.” You just barely stopped yourself from falling on your ass from the sheer shock of seeing Trevor standing directly outside your door. His door. His bathroom door. It had been a long day, ok?

“He’s not here right now,” Trevor said, just a little easier than before, “can I take your call?”

You let out a particularily pissy puft of air, “I don’t think he’d answer you.” You try and keep your voice as quiet as possible, but once again you embarrass yourself.

Trevor blinked at you, then laughs, “Ha! Ok, that wasn’t half bad.” He scratched at his nose before reaching for your arm, “Now get a move on, old Uncle T has had enough of your shit.”

“I second that emotion,” you mumbled, taking his arm as a support. You hooked your arm underneath his. Your skin was crawling with how much you don’t want to do that, but you were not in the mood to debate with yourself. You needed a nap. Or like a lot of alcohol. Or both? Both, definitely both.

With only an eye roll on Trevor’s part, the two of you made your way into Trevor’s beat up truck yet again. Despite what appeared to you to be the most lackluster medical job you’ve ever seen, you were already able to put more weight on your leg. It seemed impossible, but on the other hand, you had heard seemingly tall tales of how people could take like a shitload of bullets as long as you didn’t aim at their head. Maybe you were just a wimp. That was a pretty stark possibility. 

Trevor stepped away from you to gallantly open the door, wheeling his arm around in a big circle. You felt your lifespan getting slightly shorter. Ungraciously, you plopped yourself down onto the still stained seat, trying not to make direct eye contact with your chaufer. He tossed his hands up in the air, grumbling something you tuned out, and climbed into his own seat. You didn’t share a single word as he started to drive down the road. Except for the part where he asked you where the motel you’re staying at was, you did speak for that. But really, it wasn’t actual conversation. Hell, it wasn’t even small talk. What would you even say? “Oh herp a derp, so you shoot people often???” The car came to a startling stop, exacerbating your headache more than you thought it could be.

“Welp,” Trevor said, cutting the engine, “here’s your castle, princess.”

“Are you still really on about that?” you said without surprise. “Whatever, thanks for uhm… saving my life, I guess,” your voice got meeker as you re-realized what when down today.

“No need to thank me,” he waved it off, voice taking on a mischievous quality, “your legs can do aalllll the talking.”

You could only stare at him, stunned so hard that even his sneer couldn’t shake you from your trance. You didn’t think you had felt this level of hatred for anyone else before. There was a longer than long pause between the two of you. You almost couldn’t believe how disgusting he was. He stank of beer, blood, sweat, and several other things you couldn’t really place. He scowled hard, and your attention was drawn to his lips. They weren’t well taken care of, like the rest of him, surprise surprise. There was a rather noticeable scar on them, one so deep you’re surprised it isn’t still bleeding.

“Here’s my number,” you say, not wanting to give it to him in the least bit, “please don’t use it.”

Trevor looked like he wants to be offended, but he couldn’t quite manage to beyond the bizarity of the interaction, “Sure.”

You gave him a minute to enter your number into his phone before you turned away. ...Why did you do that? You think you had lost the plot at some point, you really didn’t remember, why was that a good idea? You couldn’t even tell if you regretted it, actually. It just… it felt like something possessed you, like you had to do that. You shook your head harshly and exited the vehicle, trying not to show your confusion. You half expected Trevor to follow you into your room, or demand some money, but he just started up his car again and drove off.

...Wait a sec.

You pat your wallet, noticing it felt oddly… lighter than before...

You were going to kill him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I promise that in the future, Trevor won’t torture the reader so much… for the most part.
> 
> As always, if you have any criticisms or comments, I'd love to hear them! I do enjoy improving.
> 
> 12/17/19 update: I found the beginning section that's set in the present to not be significant enough, tone setting enough, and honestly I just didn't like it, so I cut it out.
> 
> 1/20/20 update: a comment about the reader being too wishy washy in their emotions was really bothering me, cause I felt like it was true and brought down the quality of the fic. So I adjusted it so the reader still has a bad attitude, but is far meeker about it. Hopefully that’ll make it seem a bit realer. Tell me what you think.


End file.
